


Moir's Cake Shop

by OnlySkyAboveMe



Series: Time is made from honey slow and sweet [1]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Baker!Scott, Cake Shop AU, F/M, Flirting over Cake, Lawyer!Tessa, family business, kitchen disasters, sibling role reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-23 01:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21311581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlySkyAboveMe/pseuds/OnlySkyAboveMe
Summary: Scott Moir and his mother run a cake shop in town. Tessa Virtue, a lawyer who works nearby, comes in for advice and supplies. Maybe she'll end up with a whole lot more?
Relationships: Scott Moir & Tessa Virtue, Scott Moir/Tessa Virtue
Series: Time is made from honey slow and sweet [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546540
Comments: 162
Kudos: 197





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slitheredherefromeden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slitheredherefromeden/gifts).

> It’s the wonderful only_becuase3’s birthday this week, so here’s my gift to her (and you)!  
I hope you enjoy this little world I’ve created; I know I am certainly enjoying bringing it to you.  
All being well you’ll get seven parts in seven days.

_ Ding _

“Scott! Can you go, please?” calls his mother from the pot wash, her voice nearly drowned out by the whirring of the commercial dishwasher. Scott wipes his hands on the tea towel tucked into the tie of his apron, leaving streaks of vibrant turquoise royal icing on the fraying cotton and heads towards the door.

He adjusts his black chef’s cap as he steps onto the shop floor, noting the time on the register reads 17:25, just five minutes until closing. In front of a busy display of ribbons, candles and plastic decorations stands a woman with dark hair styled into loose curls that flow beyond her shoulders. She’s wearing a forest green, knee-length dress, with a black fitted jacket, and a pair of black and white Adidas runners on her feet, as is customary for those who commute into the city. In one hand is a stiff black leather laptop bag, and on the other shoulder is what Scott recognises (having spent a good few hours researching them when a client wanted him to make a replica of one out of cake for their daughter’s 16th birthday) as a Michael Kors handbag.

She tentatively reaches out to slip a large number one candle off its hook, adjusting the laptop bag so it hangs off her wrist, and placing the package into the same hand, leaving the other free to inspect the ribbons. She fingers the variety of spools carefully, feeling the weight and texture of the ribbons, considering her options. Once she decides on the yellow and white chequered one she turns, a question on her lips, only to freeze in surprise at the sight of him. He will admit that he feels equally startled as their eyes meet, not expecting to be confronted by such beauty on this quiet Monday afternoon.

“Hi,” he says with a smile, having quickly regained his composure. “Can I help you with that?”

“Oh, yes,” she says, looking equally as if she’s had to snap herself back to reality. She points down to the ribbon she just decided on. “May I please have a metre of this one?”

“Sure thing,” he says, grabbing the scissors from the pot next to the register and walking over to measure and cut the length for her. He rolls it up nimbly before asking if that’s all. She explains she needs to get a few more bits and pieces, so he offers to put the candle and ribbon by the register, as well as her laptop bag, if she wishes. “I’m about to lock the door anyway,” he explains, pointing to the clock which now reads 17:29. “No one will be able to come in and run off with it, and if I run off with it, at least you know where I work, right?”

She giggles at his admittedly lame joke, and it makes his heart stutter a little in his chest. 

(The sound reminds him of the luscious clatter of fridge-cold chocolate chips being poured into a glass bowl of cookie dough; a sound he’s loved since childhood when he and his grandmother used to bake together, him standing on a chair at her laminate kitchen counters, probably wearing a frilly apron. He always used to ‘accidentally’ tip one or two of the chocolate pieces onto the surface instead of the bowl, and he and his grandmother always decided they weren’t destined for the cookies and should be eaten there and then instead. It’s the sound of joy and happiness.)

But then the woman frowns slightly, “I’m so sorry, am I stopping you from closing up and leaving? I can just pay for these and go. It’s not a bother.” She says it sincerely, though he can tell she is eager to purchase more.

“No, no, it’s fine,” he says with a smile, walking towards the door and turning the key in the lock at the bottom (in the most un-menacing way he can, trying to make it clear that she can leave of her own accord at any time and he is not trapping her into his cake shop to have his wicked way with her… though his pants tighten just a smidge when he considers what he _would_ like to do with her, consensually of course). He clears his throat nervously. “We have plenty of cleaning up and organising to do here, you take your time and get what you need.”

“Thanks,” she says, and places the candle and her bag on the counter before collecting up a small wicker basket from a stack on the floor and wandering towards the rows of variously coloured fondants. She picks up a packet of grey modelling paste, pausing to read the label with the black and orange ‘Moir’s Cake Shop’ logo on it. “Is this homemade?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “Pretty much everything edible in this shop is homemade. All organic where possible, no artificial sweeteners or preservatives.”

“That’s amazing,” she says, looking impressed. “My sister-in-law will love that.”

“Are you making a cake for her?” he enquires.

“Yeah. Well, for my niece. She turns one in a week and we’re having a family party this weekend.”

“How lovely,” he smiles at her, which she returns. “First birthdays are the best. Well, I’ll leave you to it, got some frosting I need to put in the fridge. Just shout when you’re ready to pay or if you need any help.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He returns to the kitchen and leans against the counter for a minute and takes some deep breaths. Eventually he transfers the frostings he’s just made into containers and affixes the appropriate labels before placing them in the fridge. While he’s there he notes down the temperatures of all the fridges and freezers into the logbook, before moving on to check their stocks of butter, eggs, and fresh fruit, deciding whether he needs to put in an order tonight or whether it can wait until tomorrow. During this whole exercise he tries not to let his mind wander back out onto the shop floor, where the impossibly beautiful woman is currently browsing through a multitude of cutters, moulds, sprinkles and other decorations.

When he’s finished his jobs and has wiped the last of the stainless-steel surfaces down with antibacterial spray, he hears the soft clearing of a throat from the shop. He removes his hat and once crisp, white apron – now stained from a day of piping mermaid cupcakes and tempering chocolate – and throws them into the corner to take home with him. She wears a somewhat sheepish expression where she stands waiting for him by the till, the gingham cloth-lined wicker basket full to bursting with decorations and equipment; cake tin, rolling pin, parchment paper, sprinkles, candles, ribbon. She seems to be buying literally everything she needs to make a cake. He would laugh, but a sale is a sale!

“Can I get a board and a box too?” she asks, gesturing to the neatly stacked and labelled white boxes and silver boards behind him. After selecting the right size for her tin he methodically unpacks the basket onto the counter and offers for her to purchase one of their jute bags to take it all home in, to which she agrees.

“I love the branding,” she says, tracing the shape of their logo where it’s been printed onto the bag. “Bold colours, crisp design. Eye-catching, but subtle. Simple and effective.”

“Thanks,” he says, feeling proud. “I designed it.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m impressed,” she says, her voice dropping a little and eyes flicking up to meet his. He slows his ringing-up of her items, electricity sparking between them for a fraction of a second before she averts her eyes and he clears his throat, trying to dispel the awkwardness.

In an attempt to fill the silence, he asks her about the things she’s buying, and she admits to never having made a cake before, hence needing the all equipment. He comments that with the amount it’s going to cost she should have asked him to make the cake for her instead.

“Could you?” she says, earnestly, a hint of desperation in her voice.

“Sorry,” he says, scratching behind his ear awkwardly. “We’re fully booked, wedding season and all that.”

She hums her understanding and explains that’s how she ended up in this predicament in the first place. After he offers her a questioning glance, she explains. Turns out, the friend of her sister-in-law who was originally supposed to make the cake broke her arm and couldn’t anymore. Too late to order one from any other bakery nearby, and with their own kitchen being a disaster zone due to a rogue contractor, they were left with no other option but to accept her tentative offer to do it. Her eldest brother nor his wife could, as they’re flying in from Edmonton for the weekend, neither can her sister or mother, because they’re in Europe until Thursday. 

She rests her elbows on the counter and lowers her head into her hands. “I really don’t know why they agreed, or why I even offered. I genuinely think no cake would be a better option!” she groans.

“Hey now, I’m sure you can do it,” he encourages, offering her a small smile, which she returns, grateful for his vote of confidence. “If you need any tips this week just come on in, I’d be happy to help where I can.”

“Thanks.”

“Where have your mom and sister been in Europe?” he asks, genuinely interested, having spent a year of his early twenties backpacking around Europe and trying to gain apprenticeships in bakeries, first in France, then Switzerland, before finding he really couldn’t crack the language and ending up in Yorkshire, somehow managing to set up a placement at Betty’s Tea Room in Harrogate.

“They were in France, but they’ve been at Wimbledon the last couple of weeks.”

“Cool. To watch?” he asks.

“No,” she explains, looking at her feet. “My sister was playing.”

“Your sister was playing?” he asks, eyes wide. “At Wimbledon?”

“Yeah, Jordan Virtue. Have you heard of her?”

“You mean, three-time Grand Slam winner, two-time Olympic medallist, and Canadian sweetheart Jordan Virtue is your sister?”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “The very one.”

“I thought she retired?” he asked.

“She and Roger got a wildcard into the mixed doubles,” she shrugs.

“Roger…?”

“Federer,” she mumbles, looking down at her wallet before retrieving her credit card and holding out for him to take, a clear sign she wants this conversation to end.

He gapes at her, but quickly snaps his mouth shut seeing her look of mild exasperation. He finishes ringing up her items and tries not to grimace at the $75 everything comes to. Glancing up to see that she’s looking down at her bag, he surreptitiously turns the display on the register away, so she cannot see the total. “That’ll be $50 please.”

He thinks for a worrying moment that she might be onto him, her eyes narrowing just the slightest bit. He takes the card and inserts it into the reader, waiting for the machine to connect.

“Sorry,” he says, as the device takes it sweet time to ask her for her pin.

“Not a worry,” she says, gesturing to the card reader. “These machines are often temperamental.”

“No, I mean, I’m sorry about the thing with your sister. I know what it’s like to have an older sibling who everyone has heard of.” He shrugs when she looks up at him, questioningly. Her eyes flicker to the logo painted on the wall behind him, possibly to the framed picture of the replica Leafs jersey cake he made with ‘MOIR 28’ on the back. 

“Oh,” she says, realisation dawning. “Charlie Moir, he’s your brother?”

“Yup.”

“I mean… at least we get good tickets to sports events?” she shrugs, the hint of a smile on her lips.

“True, I can get box seats at the Scotiabank Arena whenever I want,” he concedes.

“But not much good when they’re the other side of the world and you have a court date?”

“But not much good when they’re for a match that finishes at 11pm and you have to be up at 4am to bake,” he says with a chuckle.

They share a look of mutual understanding, her eyes warm and kind. “Well,” she says, her cheeks tinted a little pink, too, as she keys in her pin. “I best be off and let you get on with your evening. Thanks for your help…” her eyes scan him, settling on his embroidered name on the breast of his white chef’s jacket, “…Scott.” Then she flashes him a soft smile and turns on her heel, bending gracefully to unlock the door and let herself out of the shop, raising her hand in goodbye as she steps onto the street.


	2. Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Tessa (‘s PoV) Tuesday! And cake disaster number 1/?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday C! I hope your day is as full of cake as this chapter is!
> 
> There’s an Ashley mentioned in this chapter, but not the one you’re probably thinking of ;)

_ Ding _

She nearly falls on her face as she enters the cake shop on her lunch break, the strong wind that’s picked up today pushing the door open harder than she was ready for and pulling her in unexpectedly, her patent black heels sliding from underneath her.

“Woah there.” His voice comes out of nowhere, as does his arm, wrapping protectively around her waist. She recovers herself quickly and moves away from his touch as soon as she can, he too righting himself, though she can still feel the ghost of his strong, impossibly toned, forearm against her, sending a small shiver up her spine.

“Hello again,” he says in a gentle tone as recognition dawns across his face. An errant curl has fallen onto his forehead and she cannot take her eyes off it, doing everything in her power not to lick her lips at the man she spent the rest of yesterday evening trying to get out of her head. 

“Hi.” Her hand comes up to her face to unstick a strand of hair from her lips, which she had freshly coated with her Nivea lip balm before leaving the office a few minutes ago. As she tucks the final tendril behind her ear, she realises that the shop is silent, and that he’s watching her intently as well; looking perhaps as entranced by her as she is by him.

A car horn sounds outside and his eyes snap back to reality, a light blush appearing on his cheeks as she smiles at him in greeting. “How are you getting on with your cake?” he asks.

“Ugh.  _ Not  _ well,” she huffs, adjusting her handbag on her shoulder and removing the lanyard from around her neck in frustration, fiddling with the clip to diffuse some of the tension in her body.

“Oh no,” he says, in genuine alarm. “What happened?”

She shrugs her shoulders and waves her hands exaggeratedly. “I have no idea, but what came out of the oven could barely be called a cake!” His eyebrows furrow in confusion - it’s very endearing. “I think the recipe must have been wrong, or the measurements were off or something? Whatever it was, the whole exercise was a total waste of time.”

He grimaces.

“I remember seeing cake mix here yesterday. May I buy some please? I think it’s the safest option for all involved!” She chuckles self-deprecatingly, though he’s decent enough to offer her a look of encouragement rather than judgement.

“Of course!” He waves his hand in invitation for her to follow him to the wooden shelves on the opposite wall. It’s stacked with multiple sizes of brown paper bags with the now familiar orange ‘Moir’s Cake Shop’ labels.

“You make this yourself, too?” she asks.

“Of course,” he says. “All blended by yours truly. All natural, all organic. Just add your liquids; you can even make them vegan,” he explains, proudly.

“That’s brilliant.” She looks over all the packages, her mouth watering as she reads all the flavours on offer. “These all sound delicious, I don’t know how to choose.”

“Would you like to taste them?” he asks, eagerly.

She does a small double-take, unsure if he’s being serious, since she wasn’t aware that such a thing was available. It seems extravagant, but if he’s offering what’s sure to be delicious cake, she doesn’t think she can refuse him.

“That would be wonderful,” she says. “But only as long as it’s not too much trouble?”

He brushes off her concern and cocks his head over to the table in the corner - a small, round, dark wood piece of furniture with three spindly chairs arranged around it, a thin, cut glass vase holding a single blush peony sitting in the centre.

She follows him over and he pulls out a chair for her. She deposits her bag on one of the others and sets her lanyard down on the table. She notices him glance at it, and she’s secretly glad that she’d made an effort with her hair on the day the photo for it was taken.

“What does the ‘T’ stand for?” he asks.

“Oh, it’s Tessa,” she explains. His face breaks into a genuine grin and she thinks she hears him whisper it under his breath, though maybe he says something else?

“Pardon?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Cake!” he exclaims loudly, causing her to startle at his sudden surge in energy. “You don’t have any allergies do you?” he asks. She shakes her head. “Great, I’ll be back in a few minutes, Tess.” He dashes off and she can’t help but smile at his giddy enthusiasm, as well as his automatic use of her preferred shortening of her name.

He returns from the kitchen about five minutes later, carrying a white cake stand. He places it on the table and takes a seat across from her and she switches her attention to it, having spent the time he was gone admiring the sleek interior design of the shop; a most pleasant aesthetic of white walls and dark wood, with touches of orange, black and brass in the soft furnishings, artwork and light fixings.

“Wow,” she says quietly, looking at the cake in front of her. It would just be a regular cake cut into eight slices, but instead of being all one flavour, each of the eight pieces is different. 

Scott turns the stand slowly as he points to each segment and explains them to her.

“So, this one is lemon zest and fresh raspberry cake with raspberry coulis-rippled buttercream. 

Lemon drizzle cake with lemon buttercream and fresh lemon curd. 

Vanilla cake with fresh blueberries and whipped cream.

Vanilla bean cake with vanilla buttercream.

Chocolate chip cake with orange zest buttercream.

Red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting.

Carrot cake with orange zest cream cheese frosting.

Rich chocolate cake with dark chocolate ganache.” 

Tessa can feel her mouth watering at the prospect of tasting all of these. She’s glad she didn’t pick up her usual chicken and avocado wrap on her way here;  _ cake is a totally acceptable thing to eat for lunch, particularly on a week like this, right? _ She looks back up at him, hoping there’s no drool on her shirt.

“Wow,” she says again. “These look delicious.”

He passes her a china-handled cake fork and heavy linen napkin. “Dig in,” he says as he turns the cake plate around so the raspberry cake is the one directly in front of her. “I recommend you start with the lightest and then work your way around to the dark chocolate one, I think you can assess the textures and flavours better. Oh, and you’ll want to cleanse the palate between each cake.” He jumps up and grabs a carafe of water and a couple of glasses from behind the register, causing the table to wobble as he sits himself back down in haste. She glances at him in amusement as he turns the cake stand around and lifts the first slice of cake down onto a small plate in the stack he brought over earlier. 

She digs into the cake, glad to see that he’s also holding a fork and is joining her, making her feel a lot less guilty about this extravagant experience if he’s getting to eat too. The flavours explode on her tongue, the hint of lemon pairing perfectly with the tang of the raspberries, the gentle sweetness of buttercream balancing the whole thing beautifully. She could easily devour the whole slice, but she’d never be able to manage the other pieces too, so instead she reaches for the glass of water Scott has just poured for her, takes a sip and then moves onto the next piece.

They chat as they eat, each slice different, but just as good as the other. She asks him about the shop and when they started it; he tells her about their original location much further out of town on a tiny trading estate, and about how much work it took to get it to this location. He also shows her some photos on his phone (his lock screen a photo of him and his brothers in their Leafs jerseys which, for some reason, makes her feel relieved) of the renovations they did to their current shop. She’s impressed by the transformation and tells him as much.

After that she shows him some pictures of Isobel, her youngest niece, for whom she’s attempting to make this cake, and he agrees (though whispered under his breath because he says he has several nieces and nephews of his own) that she really is one of the cutest kids he’s ever seen.

It's easy, talking to him; perhaps easier than she's found it to talk to someone in a long while, particularly someone she'll admit that she likes. She normally only finds this instant level of comfort with women; which probably explains why her last long-term relationship and most recent fling have both been women (and if they were both the  _ same _ woman... well, she's keeping that information between herself and Ashley). But she doesn’t know if she’s ever connected with anyone this instantly before.

The ease that she feels makes her wonder, though, if he's too good to be true? Whether, in a moment, the other shoe will drop? However, his casual mention that he is currently single - whilst purposefully and coyly averting his gaze - causes her stomach to flutter with butterflies, her body telling her quite literally to follow her gut and maybe switch off her brain for a second.

She's sure she's smiling and blushing like a fool now, but Scott is decent enough not to draw attention to it. She's trying to work out how to subtly let him know that she's single too, and most definitely  _ interested _ \- she cannot stop herself from licking her lips when the door to the shop opens and he turns to see who's entered, the angle perfectly displaying his outrageously chiselled jawline and defined neck muscles ( _ how do you get those? _ ).

“Hey, Ma,” says Scott in greeting to the woman, and now Tessa knows the connection, she can clearly see the resemblance. “Any luck with the strawberries?”

“Yes,” his mother says in relief, depositing several cardboard punnets of the ruby red fruit on the counter by the register before wandering over to them at the table. “Wilson’s Organics just had a delivery and did me a deal on the price per kilo.”

“That’s great!” exclaims Scott, turning back to Tessa now and raising an eyebrow in an endearing expression of world-weary exasperation. “Supply-chain issues,” he says by way of explanation. Tessa nods in understanding and he grins widely.

“Which one is your favourite?” says the woman, ‘Alma’ according to the name embroidered in orange on her black chef’s jacket.

“The chocolate is simply divine,” she gushes in response. “Though, I think I’ll go for the vanilla this time.”

“Yes, vanilla is usually our most popular for weddings, a real crowd-pleaser,” says Alma.

Alma looks so happy for her and Tessa’s stomach drops. “Oh, no,” she says. “I’m not…”

“When are you getting married, dear? We haven’t got a lot of slots left this side of Christmas, I hope this one’s told you that?” She nudges Scott with her elbow.

Tessa glances at Scott, who looks wide eyed and uncomfortable right now. 

_ She knows the feeling. _

“Sorry. I’m not getting married,” she explains. Alma’s face falls. “Yeah, I’m single.”

_ Well, she was looking for a way to casually drop that into conversation… _

“Oh,” says Alma, frowning now. “I-”

“Tessa’s hoping to buy some mix for a cake she’s making for this weekend,” Scott explains to his mother, a slightly dreamy quality to his voice now as he keeps his eyes fixed on Tessa, his hazel irises glowing under the lights, dancing with a cautious happiness at her revelation.

“I see,” says Alma, shortly, her eyebrows furrowing towards her son. She turns to collect the strawberries from the counter. “Scott, could I speak to you in the kitchen, please? I need to ask you about the caramel.”

Scott’s head whips over to her then, his expression now resembling that of a kid who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Sure,” he says, slowly, as he rises from the table. “I’ll, uh, be right back,” he says to her before slipping through the kitchen door.

Tessa fiddles with the linen napkin in her lap, trying, and failing, not to eavesdrop on the muffled discussion happening in the kitchen, catching odd snippets here and there.

"It's not a big deal, Ma!"

"That service is for weddings only, Scott."

"I'm trying to help her out..."

"It costs $50!"

Tessa's eyes widen at that bombshell. Her stomach, which had earlier fluttered with hope, now churning painfully with anxiety and guilt.

She looks at her watch; she needs to head back to the office soon, her lunch hour is nearly up. She starts to tidy the table, brushing the crumbs into her hand and then onto one of the empty plates, stacking their water glasses and refolding the napkins. Scott and Alma's voice still floating through from the kitchen.

"If this is because of some  _ crush _ , Scott..."

Tessa trips over the leg of one of the chairs as she hurries to gather her things, hanging her lanyard back around her neck, nearly ripping an earring out in the process. She's just deciding whether she's going to stay or flee when Scott reappears on the shop floor, red-faced and with his hair mussed up as if he's run his hands through it a few times.

“I, um… Thanks for letting me taste the cakes,” she says, wringing her hands nervously.

“No problem,” he says, perhaps a little too loudly. Clearly, he’s going to pretend like nothing just happened in the kitchen, or maybe he’s just oblivious to the fact that she could hear him? “Did you want to buy some cake mix?”

“Oh, yes. I think I will go for the vanilla, please.” Tessa decides she’s going to go along with ignoring what happened too.

“Here we go,” he says, reaching up to the shelf and grabbing one of the paper bags of cake mix. “This is the right amount for your tin.”

She’s quietly impressed that he remembers what size tin she bought yesterday, because  _ she  _ certainly doesn’t!

_ (Maybe that’s why the recipe didn’t work…) _

He rings her up on the register. “That’ll be $7.50 please.”

She frowns. “What about the cake tasting?” she asks.

“Oh no, that’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

She levels him with her best lawyer stare, but he impressively holds his ground. With a sigh of defeat and a mumbled ‘thank you’ she hands over a $20 bill, grabs the bag of cake mix and hurries towards the door.

“Wait!” Scott calls after her. “You forgot your change.”

She turns to face him, staring him down across the shop. “Keep it,” she says with a victorious smirk. His lips twitch and he nods his head once. 

As she steps over the threshold he hears the familiar rattle of the cash being dropped in the charity tub that sits next to the register. Despite the fact that he had the metaphorical last word, she rushes back to the office with a satisfied grin on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive shout out to Nic for all her help with editing and brainstorming. She's a great gal, send her some love and read her cute fics @PurpleHazeGirl


	3. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Workout Wednesday. Who’s ready?

_ Ding _

He’s about to start counting the cash in the register when the bell above the door sounds at 17:25 for the second time this week. And, for the third time in as many days, he feels his cheeks start to pink and his pulse begin to quicken as he takes in the woman walking through the door. 

Today her smart business wear is swapped for a pair of chequered, high waisted yoga tights accented with splodges of maroon and pink, a coordinating sports bra, and a white vest top with arm holes cut down to her waist. She has her hair swept up into a bun on the top of her head and is carrying a grey yoga mat and an Adidas sports bag in addition to her handbag and laptop case.

He has to work very hard not to let his mouth to drop open, which is easy once he takes a look at her face and observes that she looks stressed and flustered.

“Tess, hi,” he greets her as she strides purposefully over to the counter. “Everything ok?”

“The cake sank,” she sighs, exasperated, voice sad.

“Sank?”

“It has this huge dip in the middle,” she explains, defeated. “I think my oven is broken.”

“Oh no,” he says. “Do you need some more cake mix, I put together some fresh batches this morning, I can go grab you one, on the house.”

“No, no, I can't,” she says, placing her hand on top of his on the counter, seemingly to stop him from leaving.  _ Stop him from breathing more like. _ It takes her a couple of seconds to realise what she’s done and quickly snatches it away, much to his regret. “I don’t have time to make another cake this week, I’m teaching a class tonight and tomorrow. Oh god, when am I going to sort this out?” She drops her head into her hands on the counter.

He tries not to get distracted by the sight of her back and shoulder muscles as she does so, nor inhale the gentle scent of vanilla mixed with a hint of strawberry that he hadn’t noticed yesterday as they sat so close together eating the cakes. He wants to do both of these things, wants to get lost in her, but he can tell she’s stressed. So, he does his best to distract her, and also find out a little more about this woman who intrigues him so much, and who he simply cannot get out of his head. 

“What do you teach?” he asks.

“Oh.” She seems surprised. “Tonight I’m teaching a barre class in a studio uptown, then tomorrow is my weekly elderly movement session that I do at a local retirement home.”

“You teach in a retirement home?” he asks, impressed. “That’s amazing. Which one?”

“Sunny View up on Anderson Road.”

“You’re kidding?” he says, gobsmacked.

“I’m not. Do you know it?” she asks.

“Yeah I know it, we donate cakes and pastries to them for their fortnightly coffee morning.”  _ And they took amazing care of my grandmother in her final years _ , he thinks, somewhat sadly.

Her eyes go wide.

“That’s hilarious, eh?” he says. “That we both go there regularly? Have you met Erb?”

She chuckles. “Oh yeah. I know Erb!” They exchange a knowing look about the antics of the home’s oldest, and most delightfully eccentric, resident. 

She smiles at their common connection, seemingly much calmer now. He watches her reach out to turn the charity tub by the register around so that she can read which organisation it supports (it’s for the local abused women’s centre). She nods at him in approval, an unspoken acknowledgment about what happened yesterday, a line drawn under the matter.

“And a barre class? Is that a ballet thing?” he asks, intrigued, noticing just now that she looks like she dances; the definition in her legs and the shape of her ass, her slender but strong arms. He tries not to stare at her for too long, he’s not that guy, but good god she’s distractingly beautiful.

“It’s based on ballet, but it’s more of a fitness class; strength training, cardio and flexibility,” she explains. Scott nods along, it sounds like it would be fun. “We use resistance bands and dumbbells, but mostly it’s bodyweight stuff. We’re becoming quite popular in the city now, and the studio I work for is all female owned, which is pretty cool too.”

“Oh yeah? That’s awesome,” he agrees. “Can men do the classes too?”

“Of course!” she exclaims. “Why, do you want to come along?”

“It sounds like a good workout, well balanced, and way more interesting than reps at the gym.” The thought of lifting any weights right about now sounds appalling to him. He’s spent most of the day frosting 300 chocolate cupcakes with strawberry buttercream and his hands and wrists are aching unpleasantly.

“For sure,” she agrees. “I can’t stand the gym. Is that where you do most of your working out?” she asks.

“I rarely have the time or energy for the gym, so I end up mixing it up a bit. I have to do something, being around all this sugar all day.” He gestures to the shop around him and she nods with a small chuckle. “I actually do Pilates fairly regularly,” he admits.

“Oh, me too,” says Tessa, a delighted smile on her face. “Isn’t it just the best?!”

He nods, returning her enthusiasm; Pilates has been life changing for him, helping him to support the muscles he abuses by being on his feet all day, as well as helping him to rehab his shoulder and then, more recently, his knee. “But aside from that, I normally unpack the delivery guy’s van three times a week, and play a bit of beer league hockey when I can. My aunt and cousins own a rink, so sometimes I’ll help out there during school vacations.”

“Ah, so there’s more than one family business you’re involved with?”

“Baking and skating, that’s what us Moirs do,” he says with a laugh.

“I think that’s really lovely,” she says, kind and sincere, maybe a little wistful. She glances away from him, the smile falling from her face slightly, shuffling her feet and checking the time on the fitness tracker on her wrist.

“So here’s a solution,” he suggests. “How about I defrost one of our ‘emergency cakes’ for you to come and collect tomorrow? It will be perfectly fresh and delicious by Saturday, and it would take away the stress of actually baking the thing yourself? What do you think?”

“No, I couldn’t…” she starts, but he interrupts her.

“It’s seriously not a problem. I have plenty in there that I made at the weekend to restock for the busy season.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” she asks. He knows she’s just being polite now and offering him the out, but he can tell she’s immensely grateful and relieved. He nods kindly at her and she smiles in relief.

“Thank you,” she breathes, reaching out to place a lingering hand on his upper arm. “Thank you so much.” Then, she leans over the counter to press a quick kiss to his cheek. He suppresses the high-pitched sound of surprise that threatens to come out of his mouth by clearing his throat and she pulls away with a shy little smirk. There’s a pause between them, one charged with an electricity that tingles his fingertips, but a car horn outside startles them out of their reverie and she blushes before dashing off. 

He finds himself standing behind the register some minutes later, still caught up in the moment they shared before, already dreading seeing her for the final time tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Pilates is life-changing. So is Jordan Virtue’s barre class...
> 
> Also, on the topic of life-changing things, if you're ever in Toronto, go to Prairie Girl Bakery and have their chocolate cupcake with strawberry frosting!!


	4. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The working week is drawing to a close.
> 
> Tessa calls into the shop. Scott calls Tessa on the phone.
> 
> And maybe there's a moment...

_ Ding _

_ Ding _

_ Ding _

_ Ding _

It’s been manic in the shop all day, with people coming in to collect orders, several deliveries, and a very pleasing number of general enquiries. Scott hasn’t had a moment to breathe, and even had to call in his cousin for reinforcement at lunch time, alongside their regular delivery driver. Despite the frantic nature of the day, it hasn’t skipped Scott’s mind that Tessa hasn’t been in. He’s barely had a second to keep an eye out for her on the shop floor, but he’s well aware that the cake - which he may or may not have already filled and crumb-coated for her because he had left-over buttercream ( _ is it left-over when you purposefully make too much? _ ) - is still waiting in the fridge for her.

It finally quiets down around five o’clock, giving him and his mother a moment to catch their breath and tidy up properly as well as finalise the orders for the weekend. With one minute to go until half past five, Scott wanders towards the door ready to lock it, mind whirring about how he’s going to get the cake to Tessa now, when, suddenly, there’s the sound of heels clacking on the concrete outside and the woman in question skids to a halt at the door, looking flustered. She startles when she sees him, clearly not expecting him to practically have his face pressed up against the glass, but smiles in relief as he moves to open the door.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she says immediately. “My boss randomly stopped by my desk and I couldn’t slip away like I planned.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, nearly reaching out to place a soothing hand on her arm but quickly thinking better of it. “Let me just grab your cake, I’ll be two seconds.” 

He darts into the kitchen, completely ignoring his mother’s questions as he grabs the box from the fridge, but not missing her knowing look and raised eyebrows. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to her, and is praying she’ll be in too much of a rush to get home to stay behind to interrogate him.

Tessa looks nervous as he reappears with the cake, biting at her bottom lip, though she forces a smile when she notices him.

"Here you go," he says, placing the cake into her outstretched hands. He had to work very hard to school his own features in response to the expression on her face; you'd think he'd just handed her a stranger's baby for the first time, not a cake! She looks so unsure and uncomfortable, he kind of wants to snatch the cake back off her and give her a reassuring hug instead.

“Hang on," she says, looking around anxiously for somewhere to put the cake down, dithering in the most endearing way. "I need to pay you.”

“No. Please," Scott raises his hands. "It's on the house.”

"But..." she starts.

“Please, Tessa, this is the least I can do to try and make your life a bit easier.”

“Are you sure? This is your livelihood, Scott.”

“I am more than sure," he reassures her. "It's my pleasure.”

Her eyes widen a little and she swallows and nods her head. "Thank you," she whispers.

"It really is my pleasure," he repeats again, more softly, stepping a little closer to her. She too moves forwards and looks up at him through her dark lashes, meeting his eyes and holding his gaze. Several moments pass and neither of them blink, as if they're daring each other to look away. She exhales softly and bites her lip and he licks his in response. 

Throwing caution to the wind and leans in slowly, eyes dropping to her mouth and hands reaching out to hold onto the cake box as well...

The sound of his ringtone ('Saturday Night' by Arkells, meaning it's his brother calling) bursts through the silence of the shop and interrupts their moment. He curses in his head and mumbles an apology as he answers, though he hardly listens to Charlie as Tessa gives a wistful smile and ducks her head as she turns towards the door. He hastily grabs a business card from next to the register and runs over to her, holding up one finger in the hope that she'll wait for him. Tucking his phone between his cheek and his shoulder he takes the pen from his jacket pocket and scrawls his personal cell number onto it.

Her delicate fingers are tentative as she takes the card from him. He covers the microphone with his hand. "In case you need any help, later? Or, you know, next time you need a cake?" She smiles shyly, her cheeks tinged pink. She mouths a 'thank you' and nods in appreciation as he opens the door for her to exit the shop.

"Scott? Are you listening to me?" Charlie’s voice cuts through the ringing in his ears and, in a bit of a daze, he is able to contribute to the conversation (about Danny’s upcoming 10 year wedding anniversary) whilst he completes his final tasks and shuts up the shop, body heavy with the same sadness as yesterday, but with a quiet hope that maybe their paths might cross again very soon.

*

*

*

_ Ping _

Tessa nearly drops her phone when it vibrates in her hand just seconds after she sends her frantic text to Scott much later that evening. She had been worried he’d be asleep by now, and frankly she wishes she was too, so that she could wake up from her cake-related nightmare.

**Is it ok for me to call? ** He asks.

** _Sure, go ahead. _ ** She responds, fingers slipping so that her phone's autocorrect has to come to her rescue.

Her phone begins to vibrate in her hands again, the chorus of 'Knocking At The Door' playing loudly, and she takes a deep breath before answering, still able to feel the ghost of his breath on her lips, warm exhales that smelled like caramel.

"Hi," she says, trying to keep her voice level despite her frustration at the cake, and nerves at speaking to him over the phone.

"What's wrong?" He asks so gently that she wants to burst into tears; she's feeling utterly overwhelmed by all her disasters this week, as well as her growing feelings for the handsome baker with the kind heart.

"I don't know why I thought I could do this, it's all gone wrong," she says around the lump in her throat.

"Hey, it's okay," he soothes. "Tell me what's happened and I'll try and help you."

With a sigh of embarrassment and exasperation she begins to tell him about how she started rolling out the fondant, only for her to have not used enough powdered sugar on her surface, so it got stuck. She had rolled it again and used much more - she looks around her kitchen and winces at the fine coating of sugar over every available surface - but the fondant began to tear and get grainy. Her box of powdered sugar (which has sat it her cupboard for far too long) must have got damp, with tiny hard balls gathering within it.

He hums understandingly and without a hint of judgement as she explains how she thought she'd try and put it on the cake anyway, hoping to disguise it, but then she hadn't rolled it out big enough to cover the surface-area, and when she tried to peel it off she had taken most of the cake away with her.

"I swear to god, Scott, I could have dropped it on the floor and it would look better than it does now. It's completely ruined." A tear trickles silently down her face.

"One second." He's quiet for a few moments, a faint rustling and tapping on the other end of the line suggesting he's looking up something on his phone. She worries her lip with her teeth, feeling so guilty that she's ruined the cake he so kindly gave her for free. "You still there?"

"Yeah," she says, quietly.

"I'll make the cake for you tomorrow."

That isn’t what she was expecting him to say. "What? No, Scott you don't have time, you're fully booked" she argues.

"Seriously, Tessa, it's fine, I can do it. It will need to be simple so I can put together in an hour or so, but I can sort something out for you."

"I can't let you do that."

"Tessa," he says firmly. "What's your job?"

"Oh, um." She wasn't expecting him to ask that next. "I'm a partner at a law firm, I specialise in trade and finance."

"Oh," he says, sounding impressed. "Wow, that's incredible." She senses he's got a little side-tracked, but he soon clears his throat and continues. "So, you wouldn't ask me to negotiate or stand up in court or whatever would you?"

"No."

"But this I  _ can  _ do, Tessa. We're both professionals here, we both understand how important it is to employ the right people with the right skills to do a job well, right?"

_ He is right _ , she reasons to herself.

"Only if you're sure," she checks.

"I am more than sure, Tessa. I  _ want  _ to do this," he responds.

"Well, thank you," she says. "That will be wonderful."

"There's just one favour I need to ask of you," he says.

"Okay," she says, slowly.

"Please don't tell my mother." She wasn't expecting that to be his request and she attempts to smother her chuckle with a cough. "I know, I know, I'm 32 and co-owner of the business, but she has a  _ very  _ particular way she likes to clean the kitchen on a Friday afternoon, ready for her to come in at 4am on a Saturday morning to make bread and pastries, and she'll kill me if she knows I've been in there afterwards!"

She's worried, though. "No, Scott, you can't do this for me if it's going to cause a problem and make a mess. Really, I can go to Loblaws and buy some cupcakes."

"But those are nasty, and you know this will be  _ good _ !" He says, insistently. "If it would make you feel better, why don't you come and help me in the kitchen?"

She wonders for a moment if this is a line. Then surprises herself by coming to the conclusion that she really wouldn't mind if it was.

"So, I'll see you tomorrow?" he asks cautiously. In her mind's eye she pictures him stuffing his hands in his pockets and scuffing his foot on the floor.

"Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow," she says. "After work? About 5:30?"

"I can't wait," he says. "Bye Tess."

"Bye," she replies, and the call cuts off. 

After she dumps the fondant in the trash she sets about salvaging the cake enough to cut it into smaller slices to take into the office tomorrow, humming a tune under her breath as she works, smiling intermittently at the thought of seeing Scott again tomorrow. There’s a skip in her step afterwards as she flits around kitchen without a care in the world, laughing as she cleans up the ridiculous mess she's managed to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this fic is the only thing getting me through this week. Thanks, C for being born, you're keeping me sane right now!!


	5. Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Friday, and things get a little hot in the kitchen...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly had a brief ‘Aprons’ flashback writing this chapter… I had to take a moment!

_ Ding _

He’s only just hurried his mother out of the back and into the parking lot when the bell above the door chimes. He dashes through the kitchen and onto the shop floor, smiling when he sees her waiting nervously by the door, her laptop bag in one hand and a small Adidas sports bag in the other, presumably holding her work clothes, as she’s decked out in a black denim skirt, a faded Hall and Oates t-shirt, black leather jacket, with a pair of well-worn Superstar sneakers on her feet. Her hair, having either been curled around her shoulders or in a smart high bun every other day this week, is now in a simple ponytail, a small section of hair braided from her forehead and meeting the rest of her dark strands at the back of her head. 

“Hi Tessa,” he greets her, trying to remain cool and collected but actually feeling his heart thumping around in his chest like their big, floor-standing mixer as it kneads the rich, egg and butter enriched brioche dough they use to make their popular cinnamon buns. “Do you want to come on through?” He cocks his head towards the doorway and she nods and walks over, following him into the kitchen.

The room is small and simple, but impeccably clean. The stainless-steel benches shine brightly under the harsh strip lights, as do the fronts of the industrial-sized ovens and the row of Kitchen Aid mixers in various sizes. Baking ingredients sit in a variety of bins and jars on stainless-steel shelving in one corner. To its right there are racks housing every shape and size of cake tin known to man, from tiny two-inch dessert rings, to 20” squares for tiered cakes that will tower above happy couples on magical days.

He pulls out a simple plastic stool from under the island in the middle. The thick marble countertop, supported by six sturdy metal legs, is permanently cool to the touch and therefore perfect for chocolate and pastry work. The huge slab took himself, his brothers, his cousins’ husbands and partners, and half his beer league hockey team to move into the bakery. He watches entranced as she glides her hand over the smooth, highly-polished stone, her finger tracing one of his favourite swirls in the right-hand corner with a small smile on her face.

He passes her an orange apron to protect her clothes, then sets about getting the cake levelled, filled, stacked and crumb coated, subtly watching her watch him, and answering her questions about flavours and techniques, about where he trained and why, about opening this shop with his mother. 

She sneaks a taste of everything he’s putting into the cake, including the raspberry coulis he swirls into the buttercream spread between each layer of cake, which is faintly flavoured with finely grated lemon zest to bring out the zing in the fresh raspberries that he pulls apart between his thumbs and studs into the pink and white milky way adorning the champagne coloured sponge. 

He pinches off a small ball of fondant from the kilogram block he’s kneading, making it pliable through the heat of his hands alone, and gives it to her to taste as well. It’s homemade too; none of that factory-made, over-sweetened plasticine goes anywhere near his cakes. Her eyes go wide as she chews on the taster; his fondant has never had a bad review. He adds the faintest drop of lemon extract to the tacky dough, to offset the sweetness and complement the cake he has so carefully stacked, and kneads the fondant further to fully incorporate the flavour.

He dusts the end strip of the marble counter with a generous layer of cornstarch - when she asks why he uses it instead of powdered sugar he explains about how it’s easier to dust off the excess and doesn’t dry out the fondant any further, nor mess with the flavour balance - and begins to roll out the fondant, turning the disk between each roll so that it doesn’t stick, ensuring an even thickness throughout, and ending with a near perfect circle ready to be transferred onto the cake.

“Shall we put her name on the cake?” he asks afterwards, wandering towards the shelf with all the bins filled with cutters and moulds. 

“Yeah, that would be great,” says Tessa, moving to join him. He grabs the tin of alphabet cutters and notices that she is reaching up on her tiptoes to get the bin labelled ‘flowers and butterflies’. He stretches over her to get it himself.

“And do you want me to make a little model animal or something to go on top? To give it a little more dimension and height?”

“That sounds amazing,” she says. “Do you have time to do that?”

He glances over to the clock on the wall - black metal with the numbers and ‘Moir’ cut out of it - and sees that it’s only a quarter past six. “Yeah, definitely. What animal do you think she’d like?” he asks.

“Well, Kevin and Jenny have had a bit of a running theme with elephants in her nursery, so perhaps one of those?”

He smiles.”Great, I love making elephants, they’re the most fun!” He moves over to the other shelves with the fondant and modelling paste on. “So we’ll need grey for the elephant, then how about this light blue and this egg yolk yellow for the letters and the details? We can put some of the flowers and butterflies around the edge.”

“That sounds perfect,” she says with a smile. “They’ve tried not to be overly pink and girly with her so I know they’ll love that colour scheme.”

“Oh, I totally get that. I swear, I cringe every time someone comes in wanting to order a gender reveal cake.” He rubs at the back of his neck, “I mean, people are perfectly entitled to do whatever they like, but boy equals blue and girl equals pink is so stereotypical, before a kid is even  _ born _ .”

“Agreed,” says Tessa.

They make their way back to the counter and Scott sets her up rolling out some much smaller pieces of the coloured fondant between two bits of dowel in order to ensure an even thickness, and teaches her the easiest way to use the plunger cutters to get clean edges on the letters, butterflies and daisies. He sets to work on the model elephant, stopping intermittently as quiet curses and grunts of frustration come from Tessa, whose talents very clearly lie elsewhere.

He bites his lip so as not to laugh. “You doing okay there?” he checks.

“I really am useless at this,” says Tessa, dropping the cutter back onto the counter and squishing the droopy daisy back into a small ball.

“Here,” he steps over to her and sets her up with a new piece of fondant that hasn’t been overworked to the point of cracking. “You need to keep it moving so it won’t stick to the surface.” He holds the rolling pin out to her again, but she hesitates in taking it from him.

“Show me,” she says with an intriguing little smile on her face. He’s sure it’s flirting now, and he goes with it, stepping closer and slightly to the side so he’s right behind her. He reaches his arms around hers and she takes the rolling pin this time, but he holds on too, murmuring instructions in a low voice into her ear. He can see goosebumps appearing on her arms and her head tilts slightly to the side. His lips are so close to her neck and she smells so good that he just wants to latch onto the pale skin there, dusted with freckles even under the light blush that’s appeared.

It takes her phone chiming at the other end of the counter to cause them to come back to themselves, and Scott realises with amusement that they have been moving the rolling pin back and forth for a good few moments without it having any effect, the fondant already at the right thickness. He steps back as she moves from the circle of his arms, and she nervously tucks a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear as she reaches for her phone. But she pauses, hand still outstretched, her mouth dropping open when she sees the model he’s made.

“Oh my god, this is amazing!” she says, delighted, turning back to him with a dazzling smile that has his heart thumping a joyous rhythm again.

“Thanks,” he says in response, rubbing at the back of his neck and smiling to himself as he watches her lean down to inspect the modelling paste elephant more closely, her hands quivering as if eager to touch it but knowing she shouldn’t. She’s still smiling as she checks her phone and then comes back over to him and they continue their lesson in cutting out the letters and shapes, though the sexual tension has dissipated a little now, returning instead to furtive, flirty glances and giggling over broken petals and wings.

Twenty minutes later the cake is finished and they both take a step back to survey their work. Tessa claps her hands together and does a little jump for joy. “This is gorgeous, Scott, thank you so so much!” Before he can brush off her compliment and acknowledge the team effort she throws her arms around him in a quick hug, which she pulls away from before he has a chance to savour it. He moves the cake to the turntable on the side bench and Tessa follows him, removing her phone from her pocket, then begins to snap photos of it. 

Whilst she does this, he sets to work cleaning up the marble slab. He brushes off all the excess corn starch from the counter before filling a small bucket that once held a kilo of jade green dragées with warm soapy water, wiping it down efficiently before drying it off with a clean tea towel. Once it’s dry, he cleans it once more with the antibacterial spray, crouching down so the counter is at eye level and he can inspect for any signs that he was here after his mother so carefully cleaned it a couple of hours ago. Once he’s happy (and having scrubbed at a few spots with the cloth again) he stands, takes off his apron and throws it, and the cloths and towels, into the pile of laundry in the corner by his backpack.

He passes Tessa the box and she carefully slides the cake into it as he stacks up the final items they’ve used and puts them back where they belong. The punnet of raspberries tips over as he opens the fridge door, the ruby jewels tumbling silently to the floor as he curses under his breath. He deposits the container of frosting and the rindless lemons onto the nearest shelf before shutting the door and bending down to pick them up. Once he gets down on his knee, however, he finds himself face to face with Tessa, who is already collecting up the fallen berries.

“You don’t have to,” he says, as he scoops a couple that met a more violent end into his hands, fingertips now smeared with their deep pink juice.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” she says, as she reaches for one that rolled a little further away. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, marvelling at how beautiful she looks, even a bright orange apron, underneath harsh lighting, and crouched down on the floor of the kitchen picking up what is now trash.

She hisses suddenly and makes to stand, dropping several of the raspberries in her right hand as she grabs her calf. He reaches out for her quickly, his hand steadying her standing leg, her free one instinctively coming to rest on his shoulder for support. 

“Sorry,” she grits out. “Cramp.” She’s rubbing at her calf, leaving streaks of pink juice across her porcelain skin.

“That’s okay,” he breathes, suddenly aware of how close to her he’s kneeling, his hand splayed at the back of her knee. 

_ He should really remove his hand… _

Perhaps she feels it twitch because suddenly her eyes are on his and she’s looking down at him. At first she seems surprised, questions in her eyes, and he gulps, willing his pulse to stop thumping in his ears and for his blood to begin circulating his body again rather than descending southwards. But then her gaze becomes charged by something else entirely, as if the same electricity coursing through his body is being transferred to her too. Without another thought he pushes upwards to his feet and presses his mouth to hers. 

Her lips are warm and soft, and they taste like raspberries and sugar, a flavour so familiar to him, yet it feels like he’s discovered something entirely new. He runs his tongue along the seam of her lips and she parts them instantly, their tongues tangling together, sighing into the kiss as their hands begin to wander and they shuffle closer together, their bodies radiating heat despite the relative cool of the kitchen. 

He tugs the tie at the back of her apron and he feels it fall undone, breaking their kiss for the briefest time to remove it from around her neck and throw it into the corner in the vague direction of the rest of the laundry. She huffs out a little laugh before recapturing his lips again.

He creeps his hands towards her ass and, with a nod of her head in agreement, sinks his fingertips into the flesh, marvelling at her impressive muscles.  _ Barre class is definitely a must,  _ he thinks. _ _

She sighs against his mouth and she presses herself closer to him, one hand running up into his hair as the other fists the front of his chef’s jacket right above his heart. For once the heavy cotton that’s so comfortable to wear every day feels hot and constricting, a barrier to everything he wants.

“Take it off,” he husks out, pulling away from her breathlessly and pulling open the popper fastening at the neck to demonstrate. Her eyes become impossibly darker and her mouth twitches in what Scott can only describe as a snarl of hunger (and one of the sexiest things he’s ever seen). She darts forwards like a cat swiping at its prey and rips open the rest of the poppers, leaving his jacket hanging open and revealing the sleeveless black shirt he wears beneath it. She pulls at that too and he steps forwards to reach for her again, their hands roaming contrasting paths across the other’s body; hers under his shirt and up across his abs, his travelling down from her waist to the fraying hem of her denim skirt.

Their lips meet again, almost feral now as they devour each other; more bared teeth than caressing tongues at this point. He starts to walk them back towards the marble counter, hands simultaneously moving further up and under her skirt until they’re on her ass again, which is barely covered by a scrap of lace and silk that he finds he’d quite like to rip off as soon as possible. He brushes one finger lightly but purposefully across the material that covers her centre, her breathing hitches and she lets out a tiny gasp, the noise rendering him fully hard and straining against his underwear.

Small whines of desperation are coming from her now, so he lifts her up and she encircles her legs around him, grinning mischievously against his mouth when she feels his hardness pressed against her. She grips his hair tighter, her fingers scratching against his scalp in the most delicious way and he nearly blacks out for a second. He staggers forwards so he can sit her on the counter, worried about holding her up safely if this continues to progress.

He sets her down with a small grunt and leans back in to continue their lip lock when her whole body freezes and goes taught beneath him. He smirks to himself briefly, never having elicited such a reaction from a partner before having barely touched them, but then he realises that her breathing has become fast, shallow, panicked. Her eyes are wide and anxious when he pulls back to look at her, concerned, and she begins to shake her head.

“I… I… I…,” she stutters. “Fuck,” she whispers under her breath. He reaches out and gently puts his hands on her face, but she jerks away from him and hops down off the counter. “I can’t do this,” she mutters, and he feels his stomach drop to the floor. “I’m sorry... I’m sorry…” She lingers for a moment, eyes swimming with tears as they flicker over him once more before she turns and runs for the door, leaving Scott standing in the middle of his kitchen, breathing heavily and utterly confused.

After a beat, it suddenly dawns on him to go after her and he dashes onto the shop floor only to find it completely empty, her bags taken from by the register where she’d left them earlier. A quick glance out onto the street also reveals no sign of her, though he catches his own reflection in the glass, his jacket hanging open and shirt untucked, raspberry juice streaked on his neck and up into his hair. 

Dejectedly, he locks the door again and heads back to the kitchen, surveying the mess that needs to be cleaned up. With a sigh he looks over at the cake box still on the counter, and worries his lip with his teeth as he contemplates how to get the cake to Tessa now. He puts it to one side to wipe off the marble one last time, then gets to work on sweeping and mopping the floor, getting down on his knees to scrub at the raspberries crushed against the white tiles. Once he’s done, he makes to stand with a groan - his knee aching as it sometimes does after a long, active week - and spots Tessa’s jacket draped over the stool neatly tucked underneath the counter.

He takes the leather garment in his hands, resisting the urge to bring it to his nose to inhale her scent mixed with the material. He checks the pockets and finds a ring and a piece of paper in one. He turns the ring around in his fingers, smiling to himself as he reads the words etched into the silver, clearly part of a collection between the jewellery maker and Tessa’s sister; Jordan’s signature embossed on the inside of the band. He carefully returns the ring to the pocket and zips it before unfolding the piece of paper, relieved to see that it’s the invitation to Tessa’s niece’s birthday party tomorrow, including the address and her brother’s phone number.

He does one last sweep of the kitchen, ensuring it is left to his mother’s high standards - and vowing never to let her find out what nearly transpired here this evening (he shudders at the thought) - before loading the bag of laundry, the cake and Tessa’s jacket into his car. He sends a text to the number on the invitation enquiring about delivering the cake tomorrow before shifting his car into drive and pulling away from the cake shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nic is amazing. She spots all my stupid mistakes and pushes me to be better. Thank you for everything! <3


	6. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slew of regrets.  
A party.  
A confrontation.  
A date.  
A rating change...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating change. 
> 
> This is my first foray into 'proper smut' (especially for you, C!) so please be kind!!

_ Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep  _

Tessa slams her hand down on the alarm clock on her nightstand to silence it. She hates the thing; ugly black plastic with a red illuminated display so bright she’s stuck an old bookmark across it to maintain an acceptable level of darkness in her bedroom. She wishes she could wake to the soft melodies of a classical radio station or bright birdsong from her phone, but attempts with those methods of waking resulted in missed classes, airport dashes, and entering meetings with her shirt on back to front and mascara streaked across her eyelid. Only this monstrosity can ever wake her. 

Except today. 

Today she is lying on top of her bed, the curtains open and the light of a bright and clear summer morning shining happily through her bedroom window, oblivious to the dark clouds she can feel hovering above her head. The beeping alarm has pulled her from her thoughts about rippling arm muscles and a cold, hard slab of marble dusted with a fine layer of cornstarch. Her cheeks still burn with embarrassment, her eyes heavy with the sleep lost fretting over what had transpired last evening – the image of her raspberry pink handprints on his chest and his face, and the streaks of the sticky fruit at the base of her neck and from her knee to the top of her thigh burned into her brain.

_ It’s pure ecstasy. His hot breath on her mouth, his strong hands gliding up her legs and around to her ass, lifting her to sit on the marble surface. But then the spell breaks. The moment her thighs touch the cold, hard surface she realises where she is and what she’s doing. She’s in his kitchen; at his place of work; in the spot where his mother will be making cinnamon buns and pastries in just a few hours time; and  _ oh my god, I’m about to fuck the baker I met on Monday!

(It’s not that she didn’t  _ want  _ to fuck him, she most certainly did. And still does.) 

She’d be lying if she didn’t admit that the image of his face, his hands, his hair, and the ghost of his touch haven't fuelled her fantasies this week; in the shower, on her couch, beneath her sheets. But the only thing she could see last night as she slid her hand under her cotton shorts to ease the ache after she ran was the look of disappointment and confusion on his flushed face, and that had meant that her day ended without release and with the ever increasing weight of guilt on her chest. 

Shuddering at the memory, she hauls herself off her bed and into the shower, skin still feeling sticky, still smelling too much like raspberries and lemon zest despite having spent 20 minutes last night scrubbing it with such vigour that it bloomed angry and red and remained hot until well after midnight.

Dressed in a simple red sundress and black flip flops, she checks herself in the mirror one last time, grimacing at the dark circles under her eyes before sliding on her sunglasses. She steels herself as she grabs her keys from the bowl in the hallway, her love for her family and unwillingness to break her promise the only thing making her feet move over the threshold and towards her silver MX-5. She lowers the top down and glances over at the passenger seat, hoping it isn’t too slanted to safely transport the cake 30 kilometers to her brother’s new house. 

The drive into town is quick and easy, probably for the best given how distracted she feels. The clock in her car reads 1pm as she pulls up outside Moir’s Cake Shop, and she grips the steering wheel tightly and takes a deep breath before pulling the keys out of the ignition, grabbing her purse, hopping from the car and slamming the door behind her before she chickens out.

She had kicked herself when she got home last night and realised that in her embarrassed and flustered haste to leave the cake shop, she left without the thing she went there for in the first place ( _ one of the things _ , her treacherous mind supplies). Why hadn’t she grabbed the cake on the way out? It was right there, in its box, waiting to be taken home and on to the party today. She also left her favourite leather jacket behind, and hopes its presence in the kitchen hasn’t gotten Scott into trouble with his mother. 

She moves to push the door of the shop open, but it doesn’t budge. She tries again, and the metal rattles in the frame but once again does not move. Her eyes are drawn to a sheet of orange paper stuck to the glass, on it a note written in precise cursive.

_ ~ _

_ The shop will be closed this afternoon due to unforeseen circumstances. _

_ We will reopen as normal at 9:30am on Monday morning. _

_ Apologies for any inconvenience. _

_ Scott _

_ ~ _

Her eyes widen as she reads and re-reads the note, feeling the blood drain from her face and tears prick in her eyes as she realises her own foolish actions mean her niece will not have a cake to celebrate her first birthday – the fact that she’ll never remember it be damned. This is important to her family and she’s let them down. A single, angry tear falls down her cheek as she walks back to her car, starts the engine and pulls out of the parking space, heading back out of town towards her brother’s house.

She turns the radio on during her journey, but pays it no attention, mind drifting instead to reckless thoughts of wasted opportunities, stupid decisions, and wishing more than anything she had just gone to Costco and bought a cake there so that she wouldn’t be turning up with empty hands and a heavy heart. She pulls up in front of her brother’s new house in no time and shivers a little at the realisation that she’s not quite sure how she got here, thankful there was little to no traffic on the road.

The scruffy gravel driveway still has stacks of bricks and small dunes of sand and dirt to one side of it, a large skip near to overflowing with ripped-out cabinets and old 70s carpet taking up the space in front of the garage. She spots her mother’s car down the side of the house, in front of it a deep red Prius, which she assumes must be Jordan’s rental for the weekend – her sister having no reason to keep a car where she lives in her condo high above the city.

She trudges towards the front door, feeling naked with nothing in her hands, her gift for her youngest niece in a crisp parchment envelope in her handbag (the traditional first birthday gift in the Virtue family being a savings bond) alongside a copy of ‘Owl Babies’ wrapped in yellow and white chequered paper adorned with a sparkly bow. Her brother and his wife have yet to install their fancy doorbell and entry system, the one that they can control from their phones, so to the right of the door hangs an old-fashioned hand-pull bell, the dim and battered brass bell held by a warped bracket, the white paint peeling off before her eyes. She pulls the bell rope and it tinkles with an all too familiar sound that sends a shiver up her spine and bile threatens to rise in her throat as her mind conjures the smell of lemons and raspberries.

Kevin opens the door, cheeks pink, eyes a little wild, his ginger hair looking like he’s run his hands through it a few too many times.

“Saam!” he cries in relief. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

“Is everything okay?” she asks, stepping inside and becoming aware of many voices calling out to one another and the sound of at least two children crying. It sounds like mayhem.

“It’s just a disaster. We ran out of gas for the barbeque, so Casey said he’d run out and get some, but then Jason refused to let go of him to let him leave and as Megan was prying him off him, he threw his head back and hit her square in the nose, so Mom’s in the kitchen cleaning her up. Poppy is screaming about the amount of blood pouring from her mom’s nose and Jordan is trying to distract Jason with a book but he’s still screaming for his dad, who nearly took out that stack of bricks on the driveway as he left, so probably has a slow puncture now. Isobel slept really badly last night and won’t go down for a nap now, so she’s just clinging to Jenny and won’t be put down, so Jenny can’t do anything. We have no food ready, three screaming children, one bloody nose and I feel like I’m about to have a nervous breakdown.” 

Tessa feels like she needs to guide her brother into a chair to calm down, his breathing slightly ragged and hands shaking a little. He’s not normally such a flappable guy, but the last few months have been stressful for them, what with the series of house disasters on top of a hectic job and family life.

“What can I do to help?” she asks, gently, stroking her hand across his shoulder so as to try and calm him.

“Can you try to get Isobel to sleep? This day is going to be even more of a disaster if she just screams through it all. You’ve always had the magic touch with her.” Tessa smiles, she and her youngest niece do have a special bond. “I think there’s just too much activity here, maybe take her out in her stroller for a walk around the block?”

“Sure, I can do that,” says Tessa, relieved that she can actually help.

“Thanks, Saam. Everyone’s in the kitchen, if you want to say hello and fetch her? Oh, and by the way, your cake delivery guy is here. Sorry, dude,” he says to the dark-haired man standing a little way away from them, holding a white cake box. The hairs on the back of Tessa’s neck stand up as she becomes aware of his presence. “Tess will show you through to the kitchen. I hope the cake doesn’t need to go in the fridge? We don’t have one right now.”

“No, it’s fine,” says Scott, calmly. Tessa can feel his eyes on her.

She guides her brother to sit at the bottom of the stairs and instructs him to chill out for a moment, before silently gesturing for Scott to follow her into the kitchen, the sound of chatter and crying growing louder as they approach. She pauses as she enters, and feels Scott stop behind her, close enough for the edge of the cake box to brush against her shoulder blade, an involuntary shiver running through her at this indirect contact.

The tableau before her borders on comical; the two youngest Virtue children crying and struggling in the arms of Jenny and Jordan, whilst Poppy clings to Megan’s arm as Kate cleans the blood from her nose, which looks to still be gushing profusely. The kitchen itself is a disaster zone; an old picnic table stands in the middle of the room, the walls scarred from having cabinets and tile stripped. A mini fridge sits atop a wooden crate in one corner, the old metal sink hanging precariously off the wall, the tap above it clearly controlled by the turn of a wrench. There’s a rickety set of free-standing plastic shelves on the far wall, holding containers of tea, coffee, cereal, baby milk, a small assortment of cooking and dining equipment, a camping stove and a spare canister of gas to power it.

“Put it over there, I guess,” she says to him, pointing towards the shelves and he nods and carries the cake over, taking care not to step on the stray Barbies and Tonka trucks that are strewn over the exposed concrete floor. She turns to retrieve Isobel from Jenny’s arms, her niece happy to go with her, much to everyone’s relief, clapping her little hands and coo-ing at her Aunt ‘Ess’. Tessa presses a kiss to her chubby cheek and whispers her greeting to the youngest Virtue.

When she turns, Scott’s standing there watching her, his now empty hands folded slightly uncomfortably across his chest. She shifts Isobel in her arms so she’s holding her on her hip, and slips her free hand into her back pocket to retrieve the cash she put there to pay him with when she went to pick up the cake earlier.

“Thanks,” she says, holding out the bills to him. “I really appreciate your help.” 

“Not a problem, happy to,” he says, taking the cash from her somewhat reluctantly. Their fingers brush for a millisecond and Tessa pulls her hand away as if she’s been burned, bringing it instead to softly brush Isobel’s hair off her forehead, smiling as the little girl looks up at her with the sleepiest eyes. She becomes aware then of the silence in the room, and glances away from her niece to see that everyone in the kitchen is watching her, and watching Scott watching her, wearing an expression of longing mixed with a little sadness.

“I should really go,” she says hoarsely. “You know, walks to go on, naps to take,” she shifts Isobel in her arms. “Are you alright to show yourself out?” She turns before he can respond, making a beeline for the front door, and throwing it open, ignoring her brother’s concerned questioning as she puts her sunglasses on, carefully straps Isobel into her stroller, pulls the hood down to protect her niece from the hot sunshine, and sets off down the drive at a brisk pace.

Tessa can hear hurried footsteps behind her on the path, but she keeps walking, the park at the end of the street in her sights. Scott falls into step beside her and she offers him a glance of acknowledgement but doesn’t say anything and, thankfully, neither does he.

Isobel is doing her best to frown at him, unsure about this stranger walking with them, but her eyelids are drooping with every step Tessa takes. Thankfully, by the time they enter the park she seems to have fallen asleep and Tessa slows her pace, her calves tingling with the exertion of her attempt to run away from everything.

They do a full lap of the pond before either of them speaks.

“How did you find me?” she asks, quietly.

“The invitation to the party was in the pocket of your jacket. I called your brother to check it was alright for me to drop off the cake,” he explains.

“Oh. Well, that was lucky, I guess?”

Scott hums in agreement and they continue to walk in silence.

“Want me to push for a bit?” he asks a little later. She hesitates for a fraction of a second before stepping to the side and allowing him to take the handle of the stroller. They keep walking as Tessa digs through the diaper bag and locates a thin cotton shawl and a bottle of sunscreen. She drapes the former over the hood of the stroller so Isobel is protected from the sun, then applies some of the factor 50 to her nose and shoulders. Scott steers the stroller further into the dappled shade of the trees, looking warm himself as he runs a hand through his hair.

There are many things Tessa wants to say (and do) to him but she cannot get the sentences to form on her tongue. She wants to apologise; for the nearly, and then the not; for running, twice; for forgetting the cake as she ran; for pulling him away from the shop on a Saturday; for all the trouble she's caused him this week. But, mostly, she's sorry that she's ruined something she was so sure was there between them  –  the spark, the attraction, the appreciation, the understanding, the support. The potential for a special friendship if nothing else at all.

"Scott, I'm so so-"

"Will you go out to dinner with me tonight?" he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets.

She's dumbstruck. "I... I..."

"Every time you left the shop this week I was terrified I would never see you again." He admits this so solemnly, all she wants to do is throw her arms around him and hold him. "And you deserve a real date, not an aborted fumble in the kitchen I bake in with my mother."

She feels herself blush profusely.

"I think  _ this _ ..." He gestures between the two of them. "This deserves a proper shot, Tess."

She has to take a deep breath so as not to cry, the emotional upheaval of her week finally catching up to her. She glances back at him and he looks so anxious about her response.

She reaches over to rest her hand on top of his on the handle of the stroller. "I'd love to go on a date with you, Scott." The smile that spreads over his face is one of the best things she's ever seen, and she's currently pushing the cutest baby in the world around the park!

"I'm paying though," she says, in lawyer mode and ready to argue. His eyebrows begin to furrow and he opens his mouth to protest. "Please, Scott." She squeezes his hand again and he slows to a stop. "After all you've done for me this week, this is the least I can do for you."

The crease between his eyebrows softens and he brings his other hand to rest atop hers. “That would be lovely, Tessa. Thank you.”

She’s feeling bold now. “Perhaps you can thank me after?”

His eyes widen. "S-sure," he stutters, running a hand through his hair as she sets off walking again, feeling a little proud to have ruffled him.

She looks at her watch. "We should probably head back." She turns back to look at him, still frozen to the spot and looking a little stunned. Her giggle snaps him out of it and she throws him a wink before turning on her heel and continuing along the path, smiling to herself as she hears him dash to catch her up with the stroller. His fingers brush tentatively against hers and she takes his hand.

When they arrive back at her brother's house she's pushing the stroller again and he considerately, though reluctantly, lets go of her hand as they walk up the drive. He looks around at the mess and whistles. "Wow, they really did have a rogue contractor, didn’t they?"

"I know, it's been awful. But, fortunately, they've got someone new coming in on Monday," she says.

They've come to a stop in front of the house now. "That's good." He presses the button on his keys and the lights on the red Prius flash.

_ Oh, so that's his car. _

"I'll see you later, then?" she says. "Unless you want to stay for cake?" She wiggles her eyebrows and he chuckles but declines with a shake of his head.

"I need to head back to the shop and sort out the inventory for next week. Thanks, though."

They stand and just look at each other for a beat, neither keen to end this moment. Finally, he leans in and presses a kiss to her cheek, and her eyes fall closed when his lips linger there. As he pulls away she catches his eye, wanting more, but they're interrupted by her eldest niece barrelling out of the house and over to them.

"Auntie Tess!" Poppy calls out, running up and hugging her legs. "You're back! Can we have cake now?" She hears Scott chuckle under his breath beside her as she looks down at her niece fondly.

"Of course, sweetie. I just need to get your cousin inside and then we can get this party started!"

Her baby niece seems to agree, because a happy coo comes from the stroller, and Poppy pulls the shawl off, giggling at Isobel's shriek of delight, the power nap clearly having done the trick, much to Tessa's relief.

"Bye, Tess," says Scott softly from behind her. She turns back to him and they share a smile. "Pick me up from the shop at seven?"

She laughs. "I'll be there," she says, before returning his wave as she heads back inside, helping Poppy steer the stroller up to the house.

*

Dinner is perfect. They go to a quiet bistro in her neighbourhood and sit at a small table across from each other. Gentle music plays in the background as they eat, talking about anything and everything, thoroughly enjoying each other’s company, their fingers entwined atop the table whilst their legs move to their own rhythm below. She drives them to her place afterwards, her intent clear though unspoken as he smirks and offers to walk her to her door.

They barely make it as far as the doormat.

“I should have had the crème brûlée,” Scott mumbles against her mouth as he presses her against the painted wood and she smiles. His lips migrate to her neck and she moves her hands to toy with the collar of his stylish, short-sleeved shirt, a groan rumbling through her chest as his tongue wanders beneath her ear, hot and eager. She wants that tongue  _ everywhere _ . 

“Do you want to come inside?” she asks, breathlessly, her hands sliding down from his shoulder blades, fingers lifting his untucked shirt and dancing along the warm skin just above his waistband, before flattening her palm and pressing him closer to her.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice husky, his lips still on a journey around her neck and jaw. The sensation is so great that she feels her knees could buckle at any moment, and she idly wonders if he would catch her or would he merely sink down with her to the floor, their bodies still pressed together?

“Tess?” His hoarse whisper brings her back to the present. “I don’t want to take this further than you’re ready for.” His eyes are so full of concern, yet mixed with raw and uninhibited lust. He looks just about as wrecked as she feels right now, and all they’ve done is kissed.

With more self-assurance than she’s ever felt in these situations before, she slides a leg in between his. She presses herself against his thigh, hoping he can feel the heat that’s thrumming through her, her own thigh brushing against the front of his pants as she lightly rolls her hips, his erection very much evident. She smirks at him and leans in to trace the shell of his ear with her tongue ( _ our height difference is perfect for this _ , she thinks) eliciting a whimper from Scott. Spurred on by his reaction she lowers her voice and whispers into his ear, “I’ve wanted to fuck you since you stopped me falling on my face on Tuesday.”

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Me too. I haven’t been able to get you out of my head.” His face is flushed and he’s licking his lips and god, if you looked ‘fuckable’ up in the dictionary you would see a photograph of Scott Moir right in this moment.

“Then get me into my bed, Scott,” she says. He growls in response, nipping at her neck once more before she finally forces herself to pull away from him to dig in her bag for her keys. He presses himself to her back as she fumbles with the lock, but it thankfully clicks just a few moments later and they both stumble inside. They shed their shoes and jackets quickly and she throws her keys into the bowl on the side table whilst she hears him turn the deadbolt on the front door.

They’re both breathing heavily and their synchronised panting causes them both to giggle. He pulls her into a hug so tight that it grounds her instantly, filling her heart with warmth. He hasn’t reinitiated the kissing, seemingly content to just hold her for a moment, which she is grateful for as she too tries to catch her breath. She looks up at him to find him staring fondly back down at her. She feels herself blush. “Would you like a drink or something?” she asks.

“Maybe after?” He cocks an eyebrow before kissing her again. He murmurs something about her bedroom against her lips and she nods, takes his hand and leads them there, thankful that she made her bed this morning despite her bad mood. Their lips are still locked as they stumble over the threshold, and Tessa pats her hand along the wall until she finds the light switches, pressing the closer one so the floor lap in the corner comes on, bathing the room in a gentle orange glow.

She can feel him turn his head slightly to look around the room, but she doesn’t have time for a guided tour, she needs him, right now. She brings his attention back by pressing her hand to the front of his pants, the feel of him even through his dark jeans enough to make her salivate. 

“Take them off,” he mumbles, breaking the kiss for there merest second before tilting his head the other way and diving back in. She makes quick work of his belt (relishing the sound of the leather sliding through the metal buckle) then deftly undoes the button and zipper on his pants and pushes them out of the way just far enough to get her hand on him through the cotton of his underwear.

He emits a choked grunt as she strokes him firmly, his hips rocking forwards to meet her, falling into a rhythm that has both their pulses quickening. It feels like her skin is on fire when his hands return to her body, caressing her neck as they card through her hair. 

It’s not enough. 

“Touch me,” she whimpers, pressing her whole body closer to him, her attention on his clothed cock now reduced to only light strokes of her fingertips that cause him to shudder every few seconds. As she backs off he continues headlong; his lips migrating south to her collarbone and sternum, nipping and kissing a devilishly erotic path whilst his hands smooth further and further down her back.

“Is this okay?” He’s running his hands over her ass now, pausing momentarily as he realises she’s not wearing any underwear, then exhales heavily. His fingers come to the hem of her dress, just the ghost of his hands on her thighs enough to make her slick and wanting.

She breathes out a noise of affirmation, very much hoping he’s going to put those strong and dexterous fingers to excellent use very soon. However, he stills.

“Are you sure, Tess? You know, after yesterday? We could do something els-”

“Scott,” she says firmly, putting the hand that isn’t still on his dick on his chest and he falls silent, only the sound of their heavy breathing filling the space. “I would like to be clear that the only reason I stopped us yesterday was because as soon as my ass hit the cold of that marble slab I realised where we were. I couldn’t fuck you in the kitchen you share with your mother!”

His eyes go wide, as if this realisation has suddenly dawned on him too.

She softens her voice again. “I did overreact though, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run away like I did. That was fucked up.” She bites her lip, tears threatening to well in her eyes.

“Hey,” he says, lifting her chin with his forefinger until she looks back up at him. “I need you to make me two promises.”

“Okay,” she says, quietly.

“One; please don’t apologise for yesterday. I understand now how you felt and it’s a good job we stopped.”

She nods, happy to finally put this behind them. “And two?” she asks.

“Two; please don’t mention my mother when my dick is in your hand.”

She smirks again and holds him a little tighter, relishing the groan that comes from him. 

“In that case,” she says breathily. “Let’s just say that I didn’t want to lower your impeccable hygiene rating.”

“Good thinking,” he says, stepping even closer, crowding her until she takes a step backwards and continues until her calves hit the mattress. His breath is hot against her as he traces the shell of her ear with his teeth and his tongue. “I want to do filthy things to you.”

An inhuman noise comes from deep within her before he surges forwards and captures her mouth once more. It’s all heavy breathing, open mouths and warring tongues as she fumbles with the buttons on his shirt, then pushes his pants over his ass so they drop to the floor. He growls in frustration as he tries to push her dress off her shoulders, only to be met with the resistance of the linen. She drops her hands to grab the hem and lift it over her head, feeling his join hers so that when the material is clear of her face his is right there, lips descending on hers as their hands hold the dress over their heads.

His eyes flick downwards. “God, Tess, when were you planning to tell me that you’re completely naked under this dress?” 

She doesn’t respond, just bites her lip coyly, takes her dress from his grip and sends it floating towards the chair at her vanity.

“Did you take your underwear off just before we left the restaurant, or have you been going commando since you picked me up earlier?”

“The latter,” she murmurs. She looks up at him through her lashes, her breath getting caught in her throat. “Just for you.”

He smiles at her crookedly, like he’s drunk on lust, and she bites her tongue not to laugh at his little yelp of surprise as she deftly turns them so they’ve swapped positions before dropping to her knees, peeling his boxer briefs down and taking him into her mouth in one swift motion. He gasps in surprise and rocks his hips forward sharply and Tessa has to reach out fast to grab the base of his cock so that she doesn’t choke. He nearly stumbles at the sensation, crying out and fisting his hands into her hair, sending ripples of pain and pleasure shooting through her. She can feel herself dripping down her thighs, but rather than seeking relief she pulls off him, widens her stance so she has a better angle, and takes a deep breath before lowering her mouth back to him.

Now his touch is softer on her hair as she bobs her head, humming each time his fingernails graze across her scalp, which in turn elicits needy little moans from him. She adds her hand to the mix, alternately working the base of his dick and cupping his balls. His breathing gradually increases in both volume and tempo so she starts to pull back, his hand guiding her head. She rests her cheek against his palm as he regulates his breathing. The sight of his hard dick bobbing in front of her, glistening with her saliva has her licking her lips again, eager to finish the job, but before she can lean in again he’s lifting her back to her feet, turning her around and easing her down to sit on her bed.

He sinks to his knees as his hands travel smoothly up her quads and to her stomach, gently pressing her backwards until she’s lying back with her feet still on the floor. She widens her legs, shuddering minutely as the cool air from the ceiling fan dances over the slick skin. His hands come to the insides of her knees and she’s already clenching; so riled up and desperate for him. But he doesn’t move.

“Tess,” comes his strangled voice from the foot of the bed. She lifts herself up enough to be able to see him. He looks utterly wrecked, which is good, because she feels that way too. “Can I…?” he asks, his eyes flitting down to her centre, licking his lips.

_ God, that tongue. _

“Yes. Please,” she moans.

The word has barely left her lips before Scott’s strong hands are pushing her legs wider and his tongue begins tracing an agonisingly arousing path; figure of eight circuits around her clit and her labia, skilfully and infuriatingly touching neither directly. She’s about to make her frustration known when out of nowhere his tongue breeches her entrance and his nose presses perfectly against her clit, his face perfectly proportioned to her. He is unrelenting and she cries out as she arches her back off the bed and reaches forwards to grab at his hair, pulling perhaps a little too harshly at the thick waves. His subsequent moans sending intense shockwaves through her body and she’s chasing her orgasm now, so close to the precipice as she presses his head even closer to her, her hips moving erratically against his skillful tongue.

His hiss of pain causes her movements to stutter to a halt. “Oh god,” she pants. “Have I hurt you?” He’s grimacing and her arousal dissipates at seeing his pain. “Scott?” She lets go of his head immediately.

“My knee,” he says through gritted teeth, resting his forehead on her inner thigh and breathing deeply through his nose. She reaches out to help him as he gets to his feet.

“Sorry,” he says. “I dislocated it playing hockey about eight months ago, and whilst it’s better, it still gets sore sometimes.” He bends and straightens it a couple of times before placing his foot back on the floor and stands up straight, his weight distribution even, testing it. His pain seems to have gone almost as quickly as it arrived. “It’s also been a little while since I spend so long on my knees.”

“Oh, okay.” She knows she’s probably blushing scarlet now. “We can change position if it's better for you?” She’s about to scoot further back towards her headboard so that he can lie on his front, but he darts around her and throws himself onto his back in the middle of the bed instead, the mattress bouncing slightly. She turns to face him and cocks her head to the side questioningly.

He’s lying back with his hands behind his head and a shit-eating grin on his face. “Get up here,” he says, tipping his chin upwards in invitation.

_ Oh, fuck yes! _

He huffs out a laugh as she scrambles eagerly up the bed to him, holding out a hand to help her get positioned. Then he guides her to grip the bed head as his arms snake around her legs to hold her in place. Her legs are already trembling as she hovers above him and when he blows gently at her slick folds they threaten to collapse completely.

“You can sit,” he says, and she releases a stuttering breath as she lowers herself onto his face. He seems happy for her to take the lead, using his lips, tongue, teeth and nose to follow the rhythm she sets, bringing her to the peak of a glorious crescendo twice before backing off each time, her mewls of want filling her quiet bedroom. She’s a panting, quivering mess when he eventually works his middle finger into her, and it takes only a few firm and precise strokes before her vision blurs, her head falls back and she comes, hard, a series of moaned expletives falling from her lips.

She doesn’t know how long it takes her to catch her breath, but eventually he shifts beneath her and she sits back on her heels, her legs now either side of his waist. He holds her gaze as he languidly sweeps his tongue around his mouth, cleaning what he can reach of his face. She grabs his chin and crashes their mouths back together, groaning at the taste of herself on his tongue. When they pull apart a strand of saliva hangs between them, and she giggles and wipes at her mouth and then his.

He kisses down her neck as she cleans herself off her face, making his way down to her boobs and taking one into his mouth, tongue circling her nipple, the sensation causing an aftershock to pulse through her body. 

“Fuck me. Now, please,” she says, still breathless. 

“Condom?”

“In the night stand.” She points to the table on her right, climbing off him as he leans over to rummage in the drawer. “Ooh, fun,” he says as he puts his hand on something in there, but she hardly hears him, unable to take her eyes off her cum glistening on his abs under the gentle lamplight. 

“Ready?” he asks, holding a hand out to her. She must have zoned out for a moment in her post-orgasmic haze, because he’s already put the condom on and is slicking himself with her ‘intense tingle’ lube. She isn’t sure if her heart skips a beat in anticipation or affection as she watches him.

“I don’t think I’m gonna last very long,” she breathes as she leans forward and lines herself up, gliding her hand up and down his length a couple of times, gathering some of the lube on her hand to use elsewhere, wondering whether to touch herself as she rides him or swirl it around his pebbled nipples instead, eager to bring him as much pleasure as he’s already brought her.

“I’ll take whatever you can give me,” he says back to her. 

She pauses and looks down at him. She knows he’s hard, and aroused, and eager, but his expression is so soft, so full of care for her. It makes her stomach swoop and her heart thud in her chest. She leans down and captures his lips, tenderly, softly, and he responds in kind. It feels joyous, it feels warm, it feels like he’s pouring his soul into her.

They break apart and his eyes remain softly fixed on hers, and she holds his gaze as she slowly sinks herself down onto his dick, watching in satisfaction as his neck arches and his eyes flutter closed as she takes him in to the hilt before lifting off him. She repeats the action over and over again at the same leisurely pace, watching the blush spread from his face down to his neck and chest, and listening to his breathing gradually increase in tempo until he finally grasps her hips and begins to guide her.

Her movements become faster and sharper, she begins to circle and roll her hips, tilting her pelvis forwards on the start of the upstroke and causing them both to groan in pleasure (and her to silently thank her Pilates instructor). From his lips fall a string of grunts, affirmations and iterations of her name, and she nearly comes when he hoarsley says, “Yes, T. Fuck. Don’t stop. Keep going, just like that” right against her ear.

“Can we turn over?” she pants against his neck, feeling her calf beginning to cramp.

“God, yes,” he says eagerly, sweeping his arms around her back and turning them effortlessly so that she’s lying against the mattress. He hovers over her for a moment, only the tip of his dick sheathed within her, but he’s so far gone he’s barely able to form the question she knows is on his lips.

“Hard,” she says with a nod. “Fuck me hard, Scott.”

He growls so deep and animalistic that she clenches and feels herself grow impossibly more slick. Then, he’s slamming into her at a pace she’s never experienced before, his hips pistoning so fast that he’s almost a blur above her. The sensation is overwhelming and she squeezes her eyes shut and surrenders herself to every sensation, from his hot breath on her neck, to the lewd sound of their coupling, to the intense pleasure in the friction of his frenzied movements.

He begins to lose his rhythm and she’s struggling to match it. She opens her eyes as he pulls away from her neck and brings his hands to frame her face. He stares into her eyes unblinking and she’s nearly there. She slides a hand down between them to rub tight circles into her clit as he resumes his movements; now longer, rolling thrusts that have leave everything tingling as her walls begin to clench as her orgasm nears. 

On the fourth thrust his eyes roll back and his mouth drops open in a silent cry as he orgasms, the sheer rawness of it tipping her over the edge. She feels like she stops breathing for a moment as her body goes taught and waves of pleasure ripple through her.

She comes back to herself some moments later, aware of her chest heaving against the weight of Scott slumped against her as her body continues to convulse with aftershocks, each one drawing small moans from him as he too works to catch his breath. 

He soon quiets and makes to push away from her, but she clutches onto him, enjoying the weight of his body against hers. She cards her fingers through his damp hair and he sighs contentedly, the both of them happy to stay where they are for now.

Eventually he’ll roll off her and they’ll get themselves cleaned up. He’ll pull his underwear back on whilst she dons a camisole and panties. They’ll wander through to her living room and share two fingers of whiskey as they split the slice of birthday cake Tessa was sent home from the party with. They’ll talk for another hour, pressed close to one another on the couch. He’ll kiss her again, pick her up and carry her back to her bedroom. He’ll undress her slowly and she’ll undress him. They’ll turn off the lights and slide under the sheets and make love without haste, just delicate caresses and gentle words, until she comes with a whimper and him with a soft groan. Then, they’ll hold each other as they drift into a peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thank you to Nic (my shining light this week) and EastFromEden for all of their support and input on this chapter.


	7. Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peaceful Sunday should always have pancakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most enormous thank you needs to go to Nic (aka PurpleHazeGirl) for her unwavering and invaluable support as I wrote and published this fic. She's been there for me throughout the week, and for so long before, and is the most lovely soul. I appreciate everything you have done so much xx

_ … … …  _

The morning starts in blissful silence; only the gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze lulling her out of her deep slumber. It’s warm in her bed, warmer than usual, and she suddenly becomes aware of the toned forearm across her waist. Just the feel of his arm there brings back vivid memories of the night before, and she can feel herself becoming wet between her thighs all over again. She hums throatily as she presses her legs together a little harder, relishing the pleasant ache in her body that was most definitely worth it in the warm light of this summer's day.

Her movement must wake him because he groans lightly and his grip around her tightens. She turns onto her side to face him and he mirrors her, and she smiles softly as he slowly blinks his eyes open and squints at her before a sleepy but satisfied grin spreads across his face.

“Morning,” he says, voice deep and gravelly with sleep. It makes her want to do (more) sinful things to him. “You okay?”

She brings her palm to rest on his bare chest, his skin smooth and warm beneath her fingertips. “Definitely,” she breathes.

“Last night was…” he stops, seemingly unable to find the words, but his eyes display a myriad of emotions including an anxious need to check in with her.

“Yeah,” she whispers back.

“Yeah?” he confirms, fingers coming to brush her hair off her face.

“Yeah,” she asserts with a smile, carding her own fingers through his hair before curling them around the back of his head and pulling him to her, breathing in his slightly surprised exhale as she crashes her mouth against his.

She doesn’t know how many minutes pass, she is so utterly consumed by him, but when they do finally break apart to catch their breath, the moment is interrupted by the loud growling of her stomach.

“We should eat,” he says against her mouth.

“That was the plan,” she says sultrily and Scott blushes.

“Food is probably the best idea I’d say,” he reasons, gently pushing away from her. She whines in protest but he merely raises his eyebrows pointedly when her stomach rumbles again, followed in sympathy by his. “Pancakes?”

“Sure,” she says, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “I think I have the fixings for that, give me one second and I’ll get started on them.” She moves to grab her hoodie and some socks to go with her panties.

“Maybe it’s safest for me to make the food, given your track record with cakes this week?” He says it jokingly, raising an eyebrow at her. She mocks offence, but her giggles give her away.

“If you’re sure?”

“Of course.” He comes over to her and kisses her forehead. “I’ll see you in the kitchen when you’re ready?”

“Okay,” she breathes as she watches him walk away, boxers low on his waist, and she licks her lips in hunger (definitely not just for food) before slipping into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her hair.

When she enters the kitchen 10 minutes later he’s already flipping pancakes in one pan whilst bananas caramelise in sugar in another. While he works she loads her Bialetti moka pot with ground coffee and water and sets it on one of the spare burners.

“Thanks,” he says, watching the bubbles on the unflipped pancakes intently. “I had no idea what I was doing with that.”

“No problem,” she says, opening the lid and checking the little valve is in place correctly. “They’re not very common here, but Jordan always raved about how good the coffee they make is, so she brought me one back when she was at the Italian Open a few years ago. She wasn’t kidding, it does make great coffee.”

She busies herself for a moment by setting the table, but pauses when Scott begins to laugh by the stove. “What’s so funny?” 

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice still full of mirth. “It’s just, your kitchen is gorgeous. It’s clean, modern and spacious, it has top-quality appliances and all the utensils and gadgets you could possibly need, yet how many cake failures did it see this week?”

She can see why he finds it funny; it is ridiculous really. She shrugs and smiles goodnaturedly at him. “It’s just really not where my talents lie,” she explains. “The kitchen was modernised just before I bought the place, so I can’t take credit for the appliances and set-up. As for the equipment, well it’s become a running joke in my family that I can’t cook, so every Christmas and birthday my family tries to ‘help’ me…” she raises her fingers in air quotes “... by buying me a new gadget or utensil that might finally allow me to make something more than poached eggs on toast.”

“Hey,” he says, brandishing his spatula at her, an errant curl falling down onto his forehead. “Poached eggs are tricky, if you can cook them you definitely have skills.”

She pulls a face, unconvinced.

Just a few minutes later they’re seated at the table with their breakfast and she watches him as he begins to dig into his pancakes, cutting them with only his fork as his other hand is holding hers across the table. He meets her eyes when he looks up, and smiles softly at her as he chews, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly, his lips shiny with maple syrup.

It’s achingly domestic, and butterflies dance in her stomach as she blushes under his gaze, returning his grin with what must be a truly dopey one of her own. Unable to wait to eat her food any longer, and certain that she doesn’t want to make a fool of herself by trying to eat with her left hand, she squeezes his twice before regretfully pulling it away to pick up her knife and fork.

There’s a scraping of his chair against the tiled floor as he maneuvers himself to sit down beside her, pulling his plate across the table so it too is next to hers. Her heart races with affection as he picks up his fork again in his right hand, whilst the left brushes along the back of her waist, his fingers curling around her hip. She snickers quietly at his need to be close to her (he’s hardly let her go since she kissed him and invited him in last night) cutting into her pancakes and groaning loudly at how delicious they taste.

She turns in her seat in order to tell him just that, but pauses when she takes in the way he’s looking at her, like a deer caught in the headlights (though, as his face gradually begins to soften, maybe he looks more like a buck when he spies a doe amongst the trees?).

“Are you oka-” she begins to ask.

“I think maybe I love you,” he blurts out. She freezes, not even flinching when her fork drops from her hand and clatters onto her plate. “I’m sorry,” he stutters, looking back down at his plate and prodding at his pancakes with his fork, shoulders hunching up towards his ears. “Forget I said that.”

“You know, I could have just gone to Costco,” she says, softly. “After the first disaster.”

“I actually wondered why you didn’t?” He replies, voice small and quiet, still looking down at his hands in his lap.

“I really didn’t have the time, and I certainly didn’t have the skills to make that cake.” She sighs softly and places her hand on his thigh, and he finally raises his eyes back to meet hers. “In the end, I guess it wasn’t really the cake that kept drawing me back to the shop.”

He looks surprised at first, though it turns into a soft eagerness.

“I think,” she says, cautiously. “I think, maybe, that I might love you too. Or, well, I’d certainly like the chance to.”

The relief in his face is the most delightful thing she’s seen in forever, and she immediately closes the gap between them, pressing her lips softly to his, smiling against his mouth and feeling him do the same. When they break apart they just sit for a while, their foreheads pressed together as their pancakes slowly get cold. She doesn’t care though, and neither does he, both of them content to sit here and enjoy the moment. That is, until her stomach growls and he chuckles, picking up her dropped fork and handing it back to her.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Anytime,” he replies, before picking up his own fork and digging back in, his shoulder brushing constantly against hers as they eat in companionable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. I made it. Seven chapters in seven days.
> 
> I'm not sure how I did it, or what wasn't done because of it, but here it is.
> 
> I'm not sure if what I've created here is at all what I thought I would when I first had the idea (back in February, I believe, going by the creation date of the word document). Having the deadline of C's birthday really helped me get this over the finish line, though, and I hope those of you who have come on this journey with me have enjoyed it too? I've had such fun writing this for you, C. I hope you've enjoyed reading it, too? Enormous congratulations to you and T on finishing Redemption, you two are both true stars and I love you very much.
> 
> I'd love to hear what you all think. Thanks for reading xxx

**Author's Note:**

> Stay tuned, (Tessa) Tuesday is a new day!
> 
> Kudos is lovely, but comments are everything.


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